


Apartment 205

by MidnightBeast1098



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: AU, F/M, kind of, random timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-09 21:25:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3264869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidnightBeast1098/pseuds/MidnightBeast1098
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor is confused. Clara Oswald shouldn't - can't - exist. How can she? She's... she's impossible! So what else can he do but go and find her? </p><p>Clara is upset, having had the love of her life leave her - and now her best friend is moving out. You know what she needs? A Doctor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> This is kind of an AU before Clara has met Eleven but after... well, you'll see. So, it's kind of in the 12th Doctor's timeline, but before 11? Does that make sense? 
> 
> The Doctor isn't in Clara's life yet, if that clarifies it.

The Doctor paced the floor, his heels clicking on the polished metal, talking out loud to himself. He paused for a moment and sniffed, flopping on the soft chair and sticking up a finger as if making a prominent point. “You know,” he said to his unmarried wife, “some people live more in 20 years than others do in 80. It's not the time that matters, it's the person.”

Then he stood and angrily span the monitor around. “Unless, of course, you're Clara Oswald!” A long finger flicked the switch and the screen flashed into life, displaying her Victorian persona and then her future counterpart.

“ I don't understand, sexy. How can she be possible? She  _ isn't,  _ that's how!” He paced for a moment or two, tugging at his hair. “What am I going to do? I have to figure her out.”

Suddenly, he stopped and clapped his hands in delight. “That's it, sexy! Oh, you gorgeous thing. Thank you.” He leaned forward and kissed the monitor, blowing dust from his lips. “Perhaps you'd be a little more gorgeous with a clean. Hmm, anyway.” Switches were flicked and levers were pulled. The centre column rose and fell with a beautiful wheezing sound. “Let's go find Miss Clara Oswin Oswald.”

* * *

She was pretty sure the guy next door was finding a way to habit a large creature in his apartment. Cupboard doors had been heard slamming through the thin walls all day, with grunts of delivery personal alerting her that something was up. Perhaps they were installing a cage or something. Her wallowing self was finally forced to stomp over and knock on the door. “Hello. I was just wondering what you're doing.”

A man with a large box pushed past her and stomped heavily down the stairs, and her neighbour, Andy, was shunted forwards. Clara instinctively shot out her hands and rested them on his chest. “Oh, sorry,” Andy apologised, his cheeks flushing red and mimicking her own.

“No, no, it's fine. I was just wondering- Oh, I've already said that. So, what's happening?” She blinked heavily.

“Moving out.” Andy smiled widely, but his it didn't quite meet his eyes. “My uncle sent me down a load of money and got me a job up north. Apparently his workmate won the lottery a week ago and wants to go travelling for a year.”

“You're moving away.” Her voice cracked and Andy rested his large hands on her shoulder.

“I'm really sorry, Clara. But you'll always have my phone number, and I'll send down my address when I know it.” His Yorkshire accent stung like a foreshadow to the break up to come. She nodded and Andy pulled her into a loving hug. “How about we have dinner tonight, just us, eh?”

“Okay,” she said quietly on his shoulder.

“Wear something pretty,” Andy said with a wink. “How about that blue dress? And dinner's on me.” Clara just nodded mutely, still unable to comprehend the fact she was about to lose her best friend too.

The blue dress hung off her slim frame, not wrapped around her curves, but rather like a toga. Whatever it was, it was unattractive. Even though she wasn't bothered about that. Clara grabbed a stretchy black belt and secured it around her waist. Thankfully, it had always been too small and now fit perfectly. The dress didn't look so bad any more, but she still slipped on high heels and it gave her more of a look of elegance rather than a bedraggled sparrow who had fallen into the bird bath.

“A last dance,” she told herself with a wet smile. Pressing her finger tips under her eyes, she muttered, “Oh, get a grip, Oswald. He's only moving up north, not to New Zealand.” She grabbed her purse when he knocked on the door and plastered a fake smile on her face, which was real by the time she opened the door. “Hello,” she said. He glanced at her dress.

“Beautiful, you look dazzling, Miss.” He winked, an allusion to her teaching days which had now gone, the teaching days she didn't want to be reminded of. “Sorry. Clara.”

“It's okay, Andy.” She took the arm he offered her and they walked down the stairs, ignoring the lifts which always stank of sweat and urine. “Hmm, London's so beautiful at night.”

“Yeah, but polluted. And noisy.” Andy wrinkled his nose and glanced at her; her eyes were downcast, and misted. “Sorry. Again. I'll try and be less pessimistic tonight. How about that?”

The restaurant was just the local Indian, but the employees treated her like a princess, even with champagne. “You booked,” Clara noted, as one of the young boys poured her a bubbling glass with a smile. Her throat felt too lumpy to drink with, but when she took a sip, it was like the bubbles had taken her sadness down into her stomach with them where it could be disintegrated in the acid.

“I did,” Andy agreed, studying the menu. “I thought I would treat you nicely, seeing as I hadn't told you before. To be honest, I didn't know myself; I only put the apartment up for sale two days ago.”

“Two days?” Clara asked, surprised. “Really? Gosh, I wonder who bought it. They must've been eager.”

“Apparently,” Andy replied. “Clara,” he said softly after a moment, putting down his menu and sliding his hand over the table. “I really am sorry about leaving. It's just such a good offer. You'll have to come and visit. And, besides, you have plenty of other people.”

“What, like batty Catty downstairs?” Clara joked weakly. Both of them knew how crushed she was, but she refused to cry and coughed. “Yeah, of course I have other people. Perhaps I should go and stay with my grandparents for a bit.” She rested her hand gently on Andy's.

“You should,” he said with a smile, apparently relived she wasn't about to jump out of her window. “And you can come up any time,” he reminded her again.

With the awkwardness out of the way, they enjoyed a quiet but pleasant evening, only interrupted by Andy accidentally setting his chin length hair on fire when he leant over for the mango chutney. “Forget Calamity Jane,” he chortled. “I'm Calamity Andy!” Clara couldn't help but laugh.

Andy said goodbye with a kiss on the cheek that night, and Clara promised to get up the next morning to see him off, even though he was leaving at 6AM. When she left her apartment, five minutes late thanks to a stupid faulty alarm clock, he had already left the building. She hurtled down the stairs and collided with his sister, Maggie, who laughed. “He's just over there,” she said, pointing and giving Clara a quick hug.

“Andy!” Clara cried, throwing her dressing gown clad body into his arms. He staggered but stood and laughed softly. “I wish you wouldn't go,” she whispered in his ear, knowing it was cruel to say but she couldn't deny the truth.

“I know. Me neither,” he said as he pulled back. “But I wasn't suited to London, and I never well be. I belong in the country, even if I didn't have this job offer. We'll still be friends, eh, Clara.” He touched her cheek, his warm brown eyes sorrowful but trying to keep up the pretence of calmness. “I'll see you soon.” And then he simply got in his car and drove away, Maggie beside him.

Clara went back into the apartment, her legs so shaky she even took the lift. But she didn't notice the stench.

She spent all day in her dressing gown, drinking cup after cup of tea, coffee, hot chocolate, whichever was closest at the time. She watched TV, called her grandparents to see how they were, took a long bath and finished her book. But nothing gave her joy.

Near the end of the day, she realised she still had Andy's front door key. She hung it on the peg next to the door to remind herself to take it to the new owner whenever they arrived. As she walked away from the door, the letters taken from the pigeon hole downstairs in hand, a sharp rapping sound echoed through the apartment.

Dumping the letters on the table by her coat rack, she curiously stepped forward and looking through the peep hole. On the other side was a man with floppy brown hair, like Andy's, a big chin and wide nose, but light eyes as opposed to Andy's dark ones. He wore a tweed jacket and chequered top, complete with a red bow tie. She thought she could see braces poking out as well.

Cautiously, she opened the door, only remembering at the last second to slip off the latch. “Hello?” she asked. The man gave her a broad smile, the lines above his eyebrows creasing. He held a wooden bowl in his hand, full of, strangely, bananas.

“Hello!” he exclaimed joyfully and juggled in the bowl into one hand, holding out his right. “My name is John Smith. I'm your new neighbour!”

“Oh. Hello.” Clara shook his hand, which was firm and dry, and grabbed the key behind her, passing it over to him. “Sorry, I used to keep a spare key for Andy, the old tenant, he was always forgetting it. You can have it back.”

John Smith gave a small smile and shook his head. “No, that's all right. I'm always forgetful. For example, I forgot to give you these.” The banana bowl was thrust into her hand. “Bananas are fantastic, aren't they? A great source of energy.” He studied her. “Perhaps you need some more energy, some more excitement in your life, hmm?” She guessed he was talking about her well-worn dressing gown and glared.

“How rude!”

“What, no, I didn't mean-”

“How ruddy rude of you, Mr Smith!” He squealed as she slammed the door in his face and she walked away, angrily throwing the key down and collapsing in the sofa. The banana pot was thrust loudly onto the wooden table in front of the sofa. She sighed and leaned forward, taking one out and peeling it slowly.

Outside, John Smith said to himself, “Well, that went well,” and clapped his hands. Taking the key from his jacket, he strode confidentially into the apartment and played with the latch for a moment or two with delight, like a child who had discovered a new favourite game. Anything to distract himself from the fact that he knew Clara would forgive him, but why couldn't she forgive him now?

Ahh, well. He had a new flat to explore.

 


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (It's funny because I can't even remember what happens in this chapter, but I hope you enjoy it anyway!)

 

Clara didn't speak to John Smith the next day, or the day after that. She was still annoyed at his jibe, even though there was a niggling doubt in her brain that he hadn't actually meant it. Nevertheless, she thought that she might as well clean up a bit, the flat was getting a bit cluttered and gross. Two days after this resolution, she was struggling to carry three huge bin bags for the charity shop down the stairs when he popped up. “Hello! Do you need a hand?”

Reluctantly, she replied, “Yes, thanks,” and he took two of the bags, hoisting them easily despite his skinny frame, and carried them down the stairs. “Thank you, Mr Smith,” she said, offering a smile as she joined him. “And, I, uh, just wanted to apologise for my rudeness the other day. It's just been a hard time...” She trailed off and frowned as he muttered to himself. “Excuse me, is something wrong?”

“I'm Mr Smith,” the man said with realisation after a moment, grinning away. “Phew, I'm glad that's sorted. And that's all right, Clara.” His eyebrows furrowed in concern. “I hope you're all right. I'm the fixer here, you can always ask if you need anything.”

“The fixer, huh? Well, I'll have to remember that.” She carried the bags outside, taking two trips, and bundled them in her car. John Smith was still standing by the car when she got in, but was quickly distracted by a ginger cat who meowed loudly on the bricked wall. Clara took the opportunity to speed off.

The Doctor stroked the cat's head softly and whispered, “Oh, interesting, Mr Biddles. Sorry, Josephine. Owners never get these things right, do they? It seems Miss Clara might need some fixing from Mr Fixer-Upper here, before she decides to come away with me. What do you mean, of course she'll want to come away with me, I'm not strange.”

The Doctor stood and straightened his bow tie, thanked the cat and strode off to the corner shop. He was trying to make a cake, but the universe somehow followed the rule of three, and seeing as this was his third, he didn't know what could go wrong.

Apparently, everything could go wrong, the Doctor thought as he stood in the middle of the kitchen. It looked as if there had been a food fight – which there had, but with only one person in the argument. Angrily, he strode up and down, brushing off his bow tie which looked like it had a sprinkling of snow settled on the top.

The oven beeped loudly, alerting the Doctor that his fifteen minutes were up. He crouched down, remembering to slip on oven gloves at the last moment, and dragged out the metal tray, relishing in the delicious scent of sponge cake.

Kicking the oven door shut, the Doctor left the sponge cake on the table to cool and cleared up the room in five minutes. It looked like no one had even been in in the last few days. Still, the cake looked and smelt delicious.

Iced lavishly, the Doctor put it on a plate and took it next door, rapping his knuckles on the wood. Clara opened it and her eyebrows raised. “For you, to say sorry,” the Doctor said, pushing the plate into her hand.

“Me? Oh, well, thank you,” Clara said slowly, cautiously, the Doctor thought. “Would you like to come in for a slice?”

Unable to stop a large grin come over his face, the Doctor nodded and stepped over the threshold eagerly. He took a deep breath and tried to stop being so over excited. It wouldn't do any good to scare Clara off now.

The apartment was messy, but cleaner than he'd had a glance of a few days before. The hallway led into a large sitting room, with a bathroom and bedroom on the right and the kitchen ahead on the left, a mirror image of his. The Doctor flopped onto one of the two sofas, and Clara passed him a cracked china plate. She cut a slice and passed one to him, remaining silent. “Nice place you've got,” the Doctor commented after a moment or two, thinking Clara was far too polite to push the point of the dryness of the cake.

“Thanks,” she replied quietly. “I used to share it, but the person- he moved out,” she finished, hesitant.

“Oh, I'm sorry to hear that,” the Doctor said with a wide smile. Clara gave him an odd look but couldn't help laughing a little.

“Yeah. So, tell me about yourself John Smith.” She curled her legs up on the sofa. “Where do you come from? What do you do?”

“Well, I come from... I come from the Isle of Wight,” he proclaimed proudly, thinking of the little island the terrible army of Roman gorgons had captured in 66AD. “And I'm a doctor.”

“Oh, yes, of course. Dr. John Smith. Do you specialise in anything?”

“Time,” the Doctor answered without thinking. “The... time of new diseases. I specialise in new disease,” he added quickly, covering his tracks. “What do you do, then, Clara?”

“I was a teacher, but gave that up. I don't have a job at the moment, but I've applied for a marketing job at the publishing house a couple of roads along from here.”

“Ahh. What interests do you have, hobbies?”

“Travelling,” Clara replied without thinking. “Well, I mean, I'd like to travel. I don't really have the money or the means to at the moment.”

The Doctor rested his plate on the coffee table and leaned back in the chair, smiling softly. “Where would you like to travel?”

Clara's eyes lit up. “Anywhere, and everywhere. I want to see the wonders of the world, the hidden ones and the ones everyone knows. I want to see everyday people in their everyday lives, and I want to become a part of something bigger.” She paused and blushed. “Does that sound stupid?”

“Not at all,” the Doctor said. “It makes you sound...interesting. Intriguing. Different, from other people. Most people are content to live lives where they aren't particularly happy but they're secure and have at least someone in their lives. You don't seem to have either.”

Clara tried to feel offended at this remark, but found she didn't have the energy to. “No, I'm not, particularly. My dad lives in the north, and my mum died when I was young. I do have a couple of friends, but my best friend, Andy, moved out a few days ago.” She glanced at him, half with distaste that he had taken Andy's apartment so quickly, half with appeasement that at least he was a decent man. “You took his flat.”

“Ah,” the Doctor said thoughtfully. They sat in a companionable silence for a few more moments, before Clara began to shift uncomfortable and he stood up. “Well, I had better be getting on. Things to do, people to see! You know how it is.”

“Yeah,” Clara muttered, cutting half of the cake off and putting it on another plate. She passed the Doctor's plate back to him. “You take this one, Mr Sm- John. I can't eat the whole thing.” The Doctor took it with a smile.

“Thank you, Clara.” She nodded and he left the apartment, closing the door quietly behind him. She couldn't put her finger on it, but something wasn't quite right about him.

That became more apparent two days later. She and John had begun to converse more often, and she had even gone to his apartment the night before for a drink and a game of chess or five – all of which she had lost terribly.

Her pigeon hole, for the first time in weeks, was stuffed, almost to the brim. She pulled it out and glanced at the mail in surprise: all of the post was catalogues and only one of which she would have ordered herself. Then she glanced at the address and saw 'JOHN SMITH' instead of her own name and rolled her eyes. He'd used her apartment number instead of his own. Typical.

Stomping up the stairs, she banged on his door. He opened it almost immediately, and she thrust the post into his hands. “Yours. You wrote down the wrong number when you ordered them.”

“Did I?” he asked, his eyebrows shooting up.

“Yes, you did,” she said when he didn't continue. “Anyway, see you around John.” She disappeared into her own apartment, not seeing the Doctor's secret smile.

 


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delayed update!

**** The next day, the Doctor woke up with an annoying sound at his ear level. He rummaged around under his pillow and yanked out a giant woodlouse. “Hello,” he murmured, studying the armour-plated insect which was twisting around wildly. “Where have you come from then?” He cupped the woodlouse in his hands and kicked open the TARDIS door, apologising to the wood immediately. The woodlouse was placed into a glass container and a scan started.

“Oh, that's not very nice. You shouldn't take people's sad thoughts, you know. Admittedly some people need it, but everyone needs a little bit of sadness in their lives to remember what happiness is and how they can reach for it. If everyone was happy there would be no emotions like fear. Bad if you meet a tiger on the street. Although some tigers are pleasant too. There was one who used to come for tea.

“Maybe I could just make you smaller...” the Doctor mused to himself, flicking some buttons. In the glass chamber, the woodlouse began to glow and then shrank quickly. “Just like Alice,” he proclaimed proudly, and scanned it again. “Perfect! You can't affect people enough. Now just to make one shrink ray big enough for all the way around the world. That's the trouble with you things, you're practically indestructible.”

The Doctor fiddled around for a while longer before he was vaguely aware of some banging on the door – not his TARDIS door but the actual apartment door. “John! Mr Smith! Hello, is anyone in?” He ran out of the TARDIS, remembering at the last moment to shut the door and cloak it in its position by the window.

“Clara!” the Doctor shouted as he yanked open the door, breaking the latch. “Oops. How are you?”

“Can I come in?” she asked, her hands trembling but hidden behind her back. The Doctor stood back and Clara tiptoed into the apartment, flopping on the bed. In the kitchen, the Doctor made her a cup of tea because that's what people did when someone was upset, and Clara was definitely upset. Now it was time to actually live up to his namesake and find out what was wrong and how to help.

Passing her the mug and saucer, he sat on the other armchair by the faux fire and old TV. “What's wrong?” he asked after she'd had time to have a sip of the hot beverage.

Clara didn't reply for a moment. She tried to take a gasp of air but it broke on some phlegm in her throat from where she'd be holding back tears. Coughing, she rested the mug on the coffee table and curled up on the sofa, grabbing one of the scatter cushions and holding it to her chest. John Smith didn't have much in his apartment, but what he did have was pleasant enough. “The school,” she choked out. “They want me to come back. But I don't want to, John, I can't.” She didn't know why her brain refused to tell John why she didn't want to, but something was stopping her.

“Then don't,” the Doctor said simply, thinking that he might enlarge the woodlouse again and place it under Clara's pillow, even for only one night. What harm could it do, if it put a flicker of a smile on her tear-streaked face?

Clara took another deep breath. “Okay. Okay. I won't, then, I won't.” Her still-shaking hands disappeared into her jean pocket, for she'd actually got dressed as soon as she awoke that morning, something she hadn't done in weeks, and dragged out a copper key. “John, I was wondering if you'd take this. It's to my apartment, but if you don't see me for a while I might be a bit upset, and you can come in, and...” Her small mouth closed in embarrassment. In one quick stride, the Doctor was sitting next to her and had his elongated arm around her shoulders.

“Of course I'll take it, Clara,” he said softly. She leant into his warm body and sighed contentedly.

“It was a break up, of sorts,” she burst out suddenly. “Well I say break up. He...left...for something else...something-” She couldn't help it and began to cry. Uncomfortably, the Doctor rubbed her back, his eyes wide. Human pathos wasn't exactly his forté. He'd begun to think that doctors had it easy if all they had to do was write prescriptions, but if crying was something they had to deal with then he was perfectly happen with his Irish degree in potato farming, thank you very much.

“It's okay, Clara. You don't have to tell me.” She sniffed and nodded beside him, relaxing for a moment in his soft grip.

“Thank you, John. I'm glad you understand.” Scatter cushion thrown aside, Clara stood up abruptly and wiped the tears from her face with a quivering hand. “Anyway, I'm going out for a coffee with a friend, so I guess I'll see you soon.”

“Yes. Yes! Soon!” Clara gave a shy wave and left the apartment with a small smile, leaving the Doctor to disappear into his TARDIS and enlarge the woodlouse again. He gave it stern instructions and then, when he was sure Clara was out, slipped into her apartment and tucked the woodlouse under the pillow.

“Just one night,” he told himself, “and I'll be able to tell her soon, when I find out exactly what she is.” He ignored the fact that the TARDIS' scans were still telling him that she was an absolutely normal human being.

* * *

The washing machine was broken. Again. Clara slammed the door shut angrily and gave her regular mechanic a call, but he was away until the next week. Typical. She decided she couldn't be bothered to go to the community washing machines three streets along, and instead braved going downstairs to the apartment building's ones. At least they had locks on the doors; not that anyone would want to steal her clothes anyway.

When she returned to her apartment, she decided once again to try job hunting. Grabbing the weekly paper, she scoured the back pages for something to do. All she could find that interested her was a waitressing job in a restaurant about a ten minute walk away. It would be a massive drop in pay from her job as head of the English department, but she couldn't go back there, so printed off her CV and wrote a cover letter, stuffing it in an envelope. She could take it down when she went to get her washing; and, as she glanced at her Mum's old watch, saw that that would be in five minutes.

It took her that time to leave the apartment, return to grab an umbrella, and go from the second floor to the ground floor via the stairs. This time, the lift was actually out of use as opposed to just being disgusting.

Letter posted in the pouring rain, she disappeared back into the building and headed down to the basement. When she arrived, though, her washing had gone.

How was that possible? She was sure she had locked it. As she checked her pocket to determine that the key, was, in fact, still in there, she heard someone moving about in the airing room next door, where tumble dryers were kept and there were lines to hang drying washing on.

She pushed open the door. Her washing was hanging from the lines, some dripping small puddles on the floor. A man in a bow tie peeked around the corner of one of her blouses, and, to her horror, he then hung up two of her pairs of underpants and a bra. “John!” she squeaked, making him drop one of the pegs in shock.

“Clara!” he exclaimed loudly. “Surprise! I thought you might want it dry, so I...”

“How did you open my washing machine?” she asked, aghast.

“I picked the lock,” the Doctor replied, turning away to hide the secret smile on his face. “I thought you might want some help with it, because I was doing mine as well.” It turned out 'mine' consisted of two shirts and a pair of trousers, a slightly smaller quantity to Clara's entire drum full of dirty laundry. Notably in the pile were about fifteen pairs of underwear, which John was trundling through, each one being methodically hung on the line before he moved onto the next. He didn't seem to bat an eyelid although seem surprised at a thong she had worn once, as if he couldn't figure out what it was and how it worked. She wasn't in a rush to explain. Her socks were even hung in matching pairs together, although she tended to wear them miss-matchingly, and she guessed that was why there were four lonely souls hanging on their own at the end of the line.

John seemed so happy to do the laundry for her that Clara just stood, dumbfounded, and let him sort it out. Soon, her entire drum was hanging, dripping, and John stood next to her with a grin, the washing basket discarded to one side. “There. Done.” He gave her a smile and turned away to leave.

“John!” Clara hopped off one of the tumble dryers she had taken residence on. “Thank you. You didn't have to do that.”

“Oh, nonsense,” John declared. “There's nothing to a bit of washing.” He waggled his fingers, the bouffant of chocolatey hair covering his fringe having puffed up in the damp heat of the room. A line of sweat dripped off his thin lips and his eyes were covered in crinkle lines, and why was she noticing this? “Well, shall we go, then? I reckon it'll take at least...” John licked a finger and held it up. “Two hours and fourteen minutes to dry, in this heat. I cranked up the radiator,” he whispered to Clara with a wink. “But I'll turn it down later, don't worry. I'm not the type who sets buildings on fire.”

“Huh,” was all Clara could get out, and she followed him from the room, clambering after him up the two flights of stairs. His legs were almost a third longer than hers, and he gave a cracking pace. By the time they reached the top Clara was gasping for air.

“Perhaps you should start running,” John commented with a good natured smile. Clara waved a dismissive hand.

“Running? Me? Pfft, no. When will I need running?” She shook her head and gave another snort of, “Running?” before disappearing into her department.

“Hmm,” the Doctor said to himself, allowing himself the simple pleasure of a smile to spread across his face. “When, indeed, Clara Oswald?”

 


	4. IV

The next night, the Doctor decided, he was going to go one step further: he was going to cook Miss Clara Oswald dinner. And he was going to do it properly.

She'd seemed much chirpier when he'd spoken to her that day, probably thanks to do the sadness-eating woodlouse. The Doctor still thought theirs was an odd diet, but didn't like to comment on the weird habits of other creatures. Heaven knows he had some of his own.

The Doctor grabbed some writing paper from the TARDIS and penned Clara a quick note, telling her the time to come around. Yes, tonight he would tell her exactly who he was and ask her what she thought she was doing, appearing in three different times at once.

He pushed the note under Clara's door and, whistling, disappeared down the stairs to go to the nearest supermarket.

Trolleys were an object of pure delight for the Doctor, and he grasped one with glee, slotting in a pound coin to release it from the others. Oh, how he wished they had had them on Gallifrey, so he could have sat in the little chair at the front. The supermarket was packed with a parent and their little one during the week whilst their counter parts were at work.

The Doctor barely made it an aisle before a baby struck up a conversation, declaring that he  _ had  _ to have the chicken nuggets because sausages were just  _ plain gross _ . Quietly, the Doctor slipped a pack underneath the toddler's dangling legs and held a finger to his lips. The mother, distracted by an older child who was gripping her leg and screaming, didn't even notice.

What would Clara like? he mused. Italian was too pizza-ry, Indian too spicy for his liking... The Doctor had to steer himself away from the sandwich department, deciding that wasn't nearly posh enough for what he hoped tonight to be. Not that he  _ like liked  _ Clara, but that he wanted her to tell him exactly what she was, so it had to be good enough for that.

The day before, he'd even returned her now-dry clothing to her, meeting a grump in one of the flats on the first floor who had complained that the airing room was too hot. He'd just meekly agreed and turned it down with the sonic when the man had gone, taking his loudly-proclaimed grumbles with him. Clara had been pleasantly delighted, but had tried to something in return, even offering to come and tidy his flat for him: but, as the Doctor now had a large piece of equipment in the middle of the room for the mass-minimisation of giant woodlice, he'd declined the offer. Which reminded him, he had to take that down before Clara came over tonight. And figure out a way to the other out from underneath her pillow.

Eventually, the Doctor decided that Italian was too pizza-ry but wasn't too pasta-ry and stocked up on supplies to make a spaghetti bolognese. The ingredients looked lonely in the bottom of his enormous trolley, so he pushed off, leaning on the trolley, and disappeared down the alcohol aisle. He wanted to sniff at one but then got one from New Zealand, a place where he fondly remembered finding a kiwi that was a robot sent from another planet to discover if Earth was friendly. They'd been incredibly surprised to find Hobbits and Dwarves running around with gigantic cameras instead of the human beings they'd been informed of.

The Doctor paid for the food stuffs with his psychic paper that he turned into a swiping bank card. If this carried on for any longer, he might actually have to get a job and learn to support himself. He shuddered. Working sounded dull. Unless, perhaps, it was a toy story. He'd have to see if Hamley's were recruiting.

Back at the apartment, the Doctor fired up his minimiser and started scanning for giant woodlice. Whilst it wailed to itself, he took the ingredients into the kitchen. Having already discovered that the oven and he were old acquaintances, he decided to discover if the hob and he could get on likewise.

But first, he had to wait for the appropriate time to come around so that he could begin to make his dinner for Clara and it wouldn't be cold by the time she arrived. One thousand kick-ups it was.

Meanwhile, Clara was fretting in her apartment, trying to find something appropriate to wear. John's message had come with intricate drawings in the corners of the paper, which seemed to be circles with more circles in the middle, some with lines and circles on the end of those too. She couldn't make head or tail of them, but they seemed posh: posh enough that she had to dress up.

All her dresses were either stained, and she hadn't had the time to take them to the dry cleaners, or unsuitable. Eventually she decided on a dress with a red collar, white torso and a red skirt. Trying it on and looking in the mirror, she realised that her figure had begun to fill out again since John had moved in, only a week ago. Perhaps it was that half a cake she'd frog-marched herself through. Nevertheless, her cheek bones were coloured and her hair wasn't so limp either.

Clara hung around for another half an hour before deciding it was acceptable to give herself two hours to get ready. She ran herself a bath and hopped in, relishing in the warm water and vaguely wondering if John Smith had put as much thought into his preparation as she had.

He only had an hour to get ready before he thought about what to wear. Whilst turning on the hob and starting to cook the meat, the Doctor's mind wandered to the TARDIS' wardrobe. He thought about the black top hat and tails but thought even that was  _ too  _ formal. He could stick to the bow tie, and go for the predecessor's evening look. A smart black bow tie, black jacket and white shirt. Perfect.

He glanced down at his feet. And perhaps his shoes needed a buff up, too.

Clara straightened her hair methodically, before deciding she didn't like it and crimping it instead. She applied a light dash of make up before easing herself into the vintage dress she'd picked up at a charity shop. Another dilemma came with shoes, but she finally decided on red heels from her teaching days and that he had called- Enough. He was gone. And tonight was about her and John, not anyone in the past.

Speaking of the past, she hadn't heard from Andy yet that day, which was strange as he'd kept in touch since leaving, and appeared to be enjoying himself up north. She fired him a quick text about her dinner date and put her phone on silent and in her purse. Breathe, she reminded herself, as she opened the door and took the entire two steps to be in front of John's. Breathe.

Her own door hadn't even fully shut before she was knocking on John's. He opened it with a smile, his hair neatly combed back and his white shirt spotlessly clean. “Hello,” he smiled.

“Hello,” she replied, him standing back. She walked in nervously. John had set up a little table in the living room, pushing the chairs back, the sofa to the wall and the arm chair to the window. A pretty, white, lacy tablecloth lay on the small table, and two intricately designed chairs sat opposite each other. “Oh, John,” she muttered, “it's beautiful.”

“Thanks,” the Doctor said, and then, to test her, added, “the chairs are from Planet Ood.”

“Planet Ood,” Clara mused, sitting down and playing with the cat and dog salt and pepper shakers. “I haven't heard of them before. I'll have to check it out” Behind her, the Doctor put his head in his hands and gave a silent scream. Why wouldn't she just tell him?!

Composing himself, he disappeared into the kitchen and came out with two plates of beautifully designed spaghetti bolognese, going back inside to return with the bottle of New Zealand wine. “Can I interest you in the best drink from Down South.”

Clara laughed but offered her glass. “Thank you,” she said as he poured one for himself too and sat opposite her. She held up her own and the glass chinked together. “So,” she started as they began to eat, “is this a special occasion?”

“Nope,” the Doctor said, enjoying twirling the spaghetti on his fork. “Just because.”

“Just because,” Clara echoed with a smile.

The main meal was pleasant enough, but quiet and with too little excitement for her liking. They passed with small talk which was dull enough to begin with, but became duller still when she knew that the man opposite her was interesting in so many various ways. For example, who would break the lock on a washing machine to do a good deed?

For another thing, she kept on receiving his mail and eventually brought the subject up. “You do?” John Smith seemed pretty surprised.

“Yes. You're flat 205. I'm 206.”

“Oh, well, I'm sorry. Perhaps my mail just likes your pigeon hole.”

“Perhaps,” Clara answered with a smile, aware it probably didn't.

“Anyhow. Pudding?” the Doctor asked with a smile.

“Sounds good,” Clara said. She was laughing a moment later when he came out with a two-person cheese cake with a giant sparkler sitting in the middle. “Where did you get that?!”

“The supermarket,” the Doctor grinned. “It's amazing what you can find when you just look.” He picked up a box of matches from above the faux fire place and lit the sparkler. It dazzled both of them, but they couldn't look away. The flames grew to about four feet and Clara was slightly nervous it would set the fire alarm off. But it didn't and when it shrunk John cut the cake, offering her the first slice.

“Thanks,” she said graciously, cutting the chocolate with a fork. “Mm, it's delicious.”

“Yes, it is,” the Doctor said. “So... where do you come from, Clara?”

“I've already told you,” she said, surprised. “I come from Blackpool.”

“Yes, but before that.” The Doctor finished his cake and put down his fork. “Where do you originally come from?”

Clara rested her fork on the plate and stared hard at him. “I don't understand. I come from Blackpool. So do my parents. I've never traced my family tree, I don't know where everyone comes from.”

“You're definitely from Blackpool?”

“Yes!” she cried, a little louder than was probably necessary. “Yes,” she repeated more quietly. “Why do you ask?”

“Curiosity,” the Doctor replied uncertainly, deciding that she was actually telling the truth. Another thought occurred to him: maybe she didn't know who she was yet. In which case, it was something on Earth that could do it to her. Unless, of course, he intervened.

“Didn't your mum ever tell you that curiosity killed the cat?”

“Of course,” John said, waiting until Clara had finished before he rose and took both of their plates back into the kitchen. “Well, actually, she said Sontaran,” the Doctor muttered to himself, putting the plates on the side to be washed later. “Anyway, Clara,” he began, sitting back down. “I was wondering if you wanted to go travelling with me.”

“Travelling?” Clara asked, bemused. “Isn't it a little early for that? I'd rather get to know you a bit better before we went travelling.”

“How much is a bit better?” the Doctor asked impatiently.

“A few months or so, why?” Clara furrowed her eyebrows at him. Perhaps the man was insane, asking all of these crazy questions.

“I just know you want to travel and I want to travel. So why shouldn't we go?”

“I don't know. I don't know,” she said, “I just... want to get to know you a bit better before we do.”

“Okay... what do you want to know?” the Doctor asked, spreading his arms wide. It revealed bright red braces underneath his jacket.

“It doesn't work like that, John,” Clara said laughing. “You just get to know someone. Maybe in the summer, it's only March.”

“The summer. Okay, the summer.” The Doctor moved the sofa and armchair back to where it was with Clara's help and put the table and Ood chairs in the corner. They glowed a little when he stroked them.

He and Clara sat on the sofa and, once again, made small talk, but both of their minds were wandering so neither really paid attention. Clara was pondering whether she could take back her earlier push for no, and go travelling; it sounded exciting. The Doctor was convincing himself that he wouldn't have to wait until the summer. Clara would be in the TARDIS long before that.

 


	5. V

 

Clara had finally cleared her apartment out, gotten rid of all the stuff she didn't need. Even some of his stuff. She felt a little freer to do what she wanted, but something held her back every time she tried to go past John's door and down to the stairs. Something niggling in the back of her mind that wanted her to knock on the wood, step inside and insist they go to Heathrow to get the next plane to _wherever_.

Or maybe it wasn't about the travelling, she thought one morning, when she was about to knock to ask him to go to the corner shop with her. Her hand faltered at the last moment, luckily, she thought, and she disappeared down the stairs with her cheeks blushing a bright red, unaware that behind the door John Smith was actually busy shrinking woodlice.

But one thing was clear, and that was getting out of bed didn't take a considerable amount of effort any more, nor did brushing her teeth or having a shower. She even enjoyed cooking again, although her meals were rather terrible. She and John ate together at least every other day, more often she at his, and a wide array of meals had been sampled. He even made exquisite scrambled eggs.

That morning, Clara decided she would go job hunting – again. The waitressing job had fallen through. Andy, on the phone, had told her she was probably too over qualified and suggested that she could run the country instead.

The paper came in her pigeon hole every day, so she hopped down the stairs to get it, avoiding various pieces of litter and suspicious wet patches.

John's mail was still coming through to her, so she sorted it out at the bottom of the stairs, and was about to walk back up with the two separate piles when she noticed that, for the first time, there was something in his box. Curiously, she picked up the blue envelope, stamps coating its top right hand corner and it had been so ink stamped the postage was hard to read. But she saw that it came from America. Turning it over to the back, Clara ran her fingers over the embossed stamp on the back of the sticky seal, a picture of a pond with the Statue of Liberty depicted behind it.

Although she usually slid his mail under the door, if the pile was thin enough, Clara knocked on John's door instead. He greeted her with a usual grin and a bouncy hair style. She reached out and straightened his bow tie after she passed him his mail. “Hey, John,” she started, “I was just wondering who that letter was from.”

John studied the envelope, his face unusually blank. Usually, she could read him like an open book. “No one,” John said, a catch in his voice.

“Are you sure? John, are you all right?” Clara asked, concerned, stepping forwards a little. John backed away and waved a hand, leaving her in the open doorway. Uncertain of what to do, she eventually stepped in, shutting the door behind her.

Inside the flat was the weirdest contraption she had ever seen. A metal  _something_ stood in the middle of John's living room, bits sticking out and a glass case with a giant woodlouse inside in the middle. Clara thought there were a few bicycle spokes, even. “What the hell is  _that_ ?!” Clara spluttered, dumping her post on one of the sofas which had been pushed to the side.

“A miniaturiser,” John replied absent-mindedly from the window. Clara glanced up and watched him take a deep breath and slit open the seal. He pulled the paper, white and pristine, carefully out of the envelope, tugging a pair of round, Harry Potter-style glasses from his pocket and resting them on his nose. As he read it, his face seemed to crumple, but he didn't cry.

“Are you all right, John?” Clara asked for the second time that day, more softly this time. He nodded, but collapsed on one of the sofas, clutching the paper to his chest. “Who's it from? Someone special?” She didn't want to think about why, but something painful stirred in her chest.

“Someone special,” John replied, as if he just wanted something to say, something to fill the space.

“Would you like me to go?” Clara tried to stop the hurt from creeping into her voice, but suspected she failed.

John paused for a moment. “What? Oh, no, you can stay. Or you can go. Do what you want.” He seemed to so at loss for what to do, that Clara did the only thing she could think of: go into the kitchen and pop the kettle on. Perhaps a scone would help, too.

* * *

The Doctor didn't know what to make of it all. A letter from Amelia Pond. After all these years.

How had she gotten his address? She was – he didn't want to think about it, but he had to – she was dead, wasn't she? He'd been to her grave, so had she. “And his loving wife, Amelia Pond,” the Doctor murmured to himself, his eyes stinging. He removed his glasses – her glasses – to stop them fogging up and rested them on the side of the couch.

He read the letter again, aware of Clara banging about in the kitchen but tuning out of the noise. A last goodbye. Perhaps the letter had been meant to arrive to him years ago, perhaps he had just missed it. The TARDIS had probably translated the letter's address to his own, anyhow, he thought as his brain began to clear, so that solved one problem. But why now? Why...with Clara?

The letter had documented her adventures, in short, and was much like her epilogue in River's book. And it had spoken of her love for him, her love for the Raggedy Man who saved her and Rory. Why send it?

Clara came in, with a tray of scones and tea and a small smile on her face. The Doctor wanted to take her away. He wondered why he hadn't already.

And then he knew.

* * *

Was he looking at her strangely? She thought he was looking at him strangely. “John, are you all right?” she asked for almost the fiftieth time. He'd taken the tea and scones, but hadn't actually said anything since she'd come back in.

“Fine,” he said with a smile, “never better. Say, Clara, you asked who this was from...would you really like to know?”

“Why are you asking it like that?” she retorted, her nerves kept hidden.

“Because it might change your life,” was the reply.

She only had to think for, ooh, a split second. “Yes. Yes, I want to know.”

John leant back, bringing the mug to his lips again. “It's from an old friend. Her name is – was – Amelia Po- Amelia Williams.”

“Nice name,” Clara commented.

“Yes. She and I used to travel together, and her partner, Rory, came along sometimes too. Clara, I'm not who I said I was,” he added after a moment. Clara put her mug on the tray, her palms beginning to sweat.

“You're not?” she half-stated, half-asked.

“No, I'm not. My name isn't Dr. John Smith – just the Doctor. I'm from the planet Gallifrey in another galaxy, but that's gone now. I'm a Time Lord, I have two hearts and to be honest I came here...” he trailed off, changed his mind. “I came here to find someone who likes adventure, fun and a friend. Is that person you, Clara? Because it is if you want it to be.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed. His words were crazy, utterly bananas, and yet there was something so sincere in his voice and in his eyes that made her want to believe him. “How do I know that's true?” In response, John – the Doctor – snapped his fingers. A blue box in the corner of the room materialised, with 'POLICE PUBLIC CALL BOX' written across the top, and a St. John's Ambulance sticker on the door.

“This is the TARDIS,” he said calmly to her amazement, taking another sip of the drink. “I've been keeping it two seconds ahead of us in time, but I can bring it back whenever I want. Beautiful, isn't she?” Clara was too baffled to reply.

The Doctor put down his mug and stood, clapping his hands together with the wide grin that Clara had grown so used to, the letter now tucked into his jacket pocket. “So. Do you want to come with me?”

“This is kind of crazy,” was her reply. “You're telling me you're some sort of...alien?”

“Yes.” He seemed confused as to why she was questioning it.

“Who sends off for catalogues and then puts the wrong address on it.”

“Ah. Ah! Yes!” The Doctor waggled his finger in her face. “I thought that was what humans did, send for catalogues. And the other thing was just to get you to talk to me, I didn't think you would other wise.”

“Why didn't you think that?” she asked as she marvelled at the blue box – the TARDIS, he had called it.

“I don't know, you humans do whatever you fancy mostly. So.” He turned to her again. “Do you want to come with me?”

“I'll think about it.”

“What?” He frowned, caught off-guard. The yes had been so certain in his mind. “Why can't you just come?”

“I'm not going travelling with a newly made stranger. And anyway,” she added, “we agreed on the summer.”

“All of time and space, Clara Oswald. Who could resist that until the summer? Even from a random stranger.”

But Clara began to back out of the apartment, and leant against the wooden door. The Doctor stared at her woefully, like a kicked puppy, and her heart melted a little. “Perhaps the summer is a little too far away,” she said as she paused. She yanked open the door and scurried into her room.

“What?” the Doctor said to the blank piece of wood as it swung shut behind her. “What on earth is that supposed to mean?” Then he laughed to himself. “Ha, me actually  _on_ Earth. I'll have to say that more often.”

He debated going after her, but then thought she'd come back...hopefully.

 


	6. VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The finale...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO SORRY that it has taken so long for me to upload this final chapter! I really really hope you enjoy the finale, however, and perhaps if I write & upload another DW story I'll have a few supporters. ;) 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me!

 

_ What was she doing? Packing? Really?  _ Clara shrugged and threw a pair of sandals on top of the wellies she had. Who knew where they could go? 

John – the Doctor – had come over after she'd stormed out to ask her if she was all right. She'd responded quite bright-eyed – probably too bright-eyed – and he'd stared at her a little warily before shrugging and going away. Clara hoped he was still next door. If he wasn't, she'd find a way to get to him. There was always a way.

Perhaps she should tell him she was coming, and not just spring it on the poor man. Yes, that was probably better.

A knock later, the Doctor opened the door and gave her a small smile. “Hello, Clara.”

“Doctor,” she started, breathing heavily, “listen, I'm sorry. I'm sorry about walking out yesterday and I'm sorry about not telling you things and I'm sorry about being pretty useless right now and I'm sorry- I'm just-”

“Clara,” the Doctor interrupted with a smile. “It's okay. Everything's okay. If you don't want to come away yet, that's all right. I can wait.”

Oh, he was so adorable. “That's just it! I- I don't want you to have to wait.”

He looked confused, and cocked his head to one side. “You...want me to go without you?”

“You honestly have no idea about human emotions, do you, Doctor?” Clara asked smiling. She chuckled and shook her head. “Doctor... I want to come with you. Today.” His eyes lit up and he clapped his hands, doing a weird jiggle with his legs as if unsure how to express his obvious delight. “Um, are you okay? You look like you need the toilet. Do you even go to the toilet?”

“Oh, Clara, this is fantastic!” Then he stopped and frowned. “What made you change your mind?”

“Perhaps it was the banana I had this morning.” She winked and his face broke out into a wide grin again. “I'll, um, just go and get my case. Then we can go.”

“Yes, yes! I'll get everything ready.” He shut the door and Clara could hear him cheer behind the wood.

“Um, these walls aren't that thick!” she shouted.

He cut off abruptly, opening the door to whisper, “Sorry,” before shutting it again. Rolling her eyes, Clara went back into her own apartment. Well, would it be hers any more? Should she sell it?

These questions which, only a few weeks ago, would have terrified her were now oddly inviting. She threw a few more possessions into the case and scoured the living area for anything she had missed. By the mirror above the fireplace, she picked up a folded piece of paper and looked down on it. Her finger traced the writing and the picture on the card.

She sniffed and walked over to the sofa, sitting down slowly. Could she really just do that – leave? Would she ever come back?

Reaching over, she grabbed her mobile phone and speed dialled Andy. He picked up on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Andy!” Clara exclaimed. “Andy, Andy. Um. I have something to tell you.”

“Okay,” he said uncertainly. “Shoot,” he pushed when she didn't carry on.

“I'm going away,” she spluttered out. “Travelling. With my new neighbour.”

“Wow. Really?”

“Mhm.”

“Wow.”

“Is that all you have to say?” she asked, not sure whether to be annoyed that he wasn't curious or pleased that he seemed all right with it.

“What else can I say? If you're going travelling with...him?” She affirmed. “Him already, then you guys must really like each other. I hope you have a great time. Do you know where you're going?”

She bit her lip, then replied, “Um, no, not exactly. Somewhere awesome, though, I hope.”

“Somewhere awesome,” he echoed. “Are you calling to tell me not to drop back or something else?” She gave a small smile.

“ I'm not sure if I'm making a bad decision. I won't have a job, I don't even know if I can get phone signal. It'll only be me and him – what if I decide I don't like him any more?”  _ Fat chance,  _ she thought, her mind drifting to his Labrador eyes.

“Clara, if you're that uncertain, don't go. But if you think that this could offer you something else, you might as well go. Look before you leap, but if you can see the other side there's always a way back.”

“Hmm,” she said thoughtfully, and then smiled. “Thanks, Andy.”

“And if you don't have phone signal, make sure you take my address and write to me!”

“I will!” she replied chirpily, hoping that the TARDIS had reception for O2. She didn't know if it had a post box, but the phone signal seemed like the better bet.

“Have fun,” he reminded her.

“ I will,” she replied. “Stay safe  _ up North _ .” She disconnected to his chuckle.

Decision finally, not-going-backily made, she stood and placed the paper on her coffee table, taking a photo frame from the ledge instead. Danny Pink's Order of Service lay on top of a coffee ring, the hymns and speeches from inside forever burned into Clara's mind. Yes, he had left her, perhaps not through his own doing, but he most definitely was not coming back. It was time for her to move on with her life, she thought, the matted picture still giving a glare in the light.

Her case zipped, she gave one last look at the apartment, dropped the key in her pocket and slammed the self-locking door.

“Doctor!” she cried, banging on the door, the photo frame knocking against her in her jacket pocket. It might break her heart to do so, but she'd have to put the romantic silhouette of her and her ex-fiancé in her case so it didn't break. The Doctor opened the door and smiled.

“Ready?” he asked, a baby glow about his soft features.

“Definitely,” she replied, stepping in to the apartment and circling the blue box.

“Then let's go,” the Doctor whispered, pushing the door open and stepping inside with an extravagant wave of his hands. “All of time and space.”

“Somewhere awesome,” Clara murmured to herself, taking in the grey glow of the beautiful expanse laying before her.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! New chapter next Saturday. Thoughts and comments are appreciated :)


End file.
